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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277874">he makes me shine (like diamonds)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RuPaul's Drag Race RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Repost of old fic, Songfic, lana del rey - Freeform, tw body image, tw death mentions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:20:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>Enjoy this fic I found in the depths of my Google Docs. Please red TW's before reading and leave me a like if you enjoyed xx</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo, branjie - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>he makes me shine (like diamonds)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Enjoy this fic I found in the depths of my Google Docs. Please red TW's before reading and leave me a like if you enjoyed xx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve seen the world, done it all</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Had my cake now</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no place like home. I mean that literally, of course, as my roots haven’t been buried in soil for quite a while now and they’re starting to die. Despite hailing from Toronto, the people are too kind. It lives in its own bubble of sweetness and happiness and I never read fairytales when I was young. Nashville isn’t right either (though I am never short of bookings here), the sun’s too hot and the political morals of some of the South’s residents are questionable and not something I really want to associate myself with. Ballet took me to South Africa ten-something years ago and it was full of beautiful people and beautiful places, but my feet never touched the ground to allow new beginnings to blossom. My feet are tired now, and they’re looking for white plush carpets and sitting room fireplaces. I spent years of my life pushing my boundaries, working through unhealthy bouts of exhaustion and sickness, only stopping when my knees would buckle and my toes wouldn’t hold me up anymore. I think I deserve to be comfortable, now. I crave effortless comfort, and I’m not talking about cigarettes any longer; I bought new clothes and stronger laundry detergent and smashed my lighters on the pavement outside months ago. I plan to fill the void you left with faux fur blankets and linen candles, to rebuild this soul with cream bricks and floral wallpaper.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hot summer nights, mid-July</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When you and I were forever wild</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The crazy days, city lights</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Florida nights were fucking hot, and without you there, it would have been unbearable. It’s not something I need to concern myself over though, as I’m never stepping foot into the state again. Promoters call me at least twice a week to come back and do gigs with you, and the only answer they ever get is the harsh beeping of the call being ended. It’s almost like no-one else has ever experienced a heartbreak, like they wouldn’t freak out over having to perform and make jokes and stare at your ex all night. It’s not their job to care, I know, but every call crushes my bones just a little more, and between that and the cigarettes and the dancing, it’ll be a miracle if I haven’t worn myself down to flesh and a useless set of lungs by the time I reach forty.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>I remember a specific night in a Miami club around last October, when you got so drunk and I had to carry you, legs wrapped around my waist and arms slung over my shoulders, back to the car. I drove us home, the disco hits on the radio turned down, and once I successfully got you into bed, I laid awake for hours. I drank in every detail, the delicate flutter of your eyelashes, the freckle above your left eyebrow, like it was the last time I’d ever get to see it. Six months, about 182 days, and hours I don’t have the energy to even think of, later, I’d be utterly grateful for my past decision.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Beauty is trivial but that doesn’t stop me from wishing my nose was a little smaller, my waist a little tighter, eyes a little brighter. There is beauty in everything, and on hopeless nights, I see it in hot chocolate and patio chairs, patterns and intricate detailing settling heavy in my chest. I don’t see it in myself, even in a goddamn ball gown and stilettos, and I guess that’s why I’m so afraid. You looked at me like a child at Disneyland, teenage girls at boy bands on arena stages, elderly men at their partner of fifty years. I’ve never felt more self-conscious, yet as worshipped and god-like as you made me feel on our first date night, hands tugging hair and sheets. I am ashamed and disgusted at myself for letting that go. Freedom is not what I made it out to be. It is lonely and sad and I think it’s going to kill me, even before the tar build-up in my lungs gets its chance.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to die alone.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Lord, when I get to heaven</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please let me bring my man</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to die alone. Death is terrifying and looming over my every move, and a professional would probably say I have a problem, but it’s unbelievable to think that some people don’t think about what they want their last words to be. Who they want to kiss them on the cheek for the final time, pull them into their arms and rest their chin on your head one last time. I don’t think I even need to say who I want mine to be.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>When the time does come though, when I’ve taken my final breath and I’m making my ascent towards the sky, I hope you’re going to be holding my hand. Hopefully I’ll have stopped overthinking it by then, have realised that life was too short and I made several huge mistakes by not kissing you senseless back in the clubs in Florida, Copenhagen, London. I hope they’ll let me give it another chance.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?</span>
  </em>
</p>
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